My friend Mrs Mellissa Sparrow from Grilsby-on-the-Hill has sent me her poem on the Winter Solstice. Apparently the editor of her local church magazine told her not to send him any more until next summer. I don't understand why....
Winter SolsticeAnd now, at the death of the year
When nature hides and quivers in fear
The scuttling sun - above the woods
The dry twigs and the flower buds.
But though the dark rolls across the down
yet hope will linger in the frown
of bitter winter, sweeping down
to gild the world with frosty crown
And soon the sun will rise again
To lure the vixen from her den
And shake all nature from its fear
The new hope dawns in every year.
Except of course, when the sun grows old
and instead of rising - gentle yet bold
It expands as a red giant
and swallows everything out as far as the orbit of Mars.
At which point we're going to need another metaphor.
And probably a better rhyme scheme.